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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23530705">Kato Pale</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil'>greygerbil</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Manhandling, Mpreg, Public Sex, Ritual Sex, Sex between rivals, Sex to Conceive</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:29:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23530705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stentor is prepared to accept whoever wins the ritual combat as the father of his child. Lysander is the last man he expected to even enter the competition.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lysander/Stentor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Smut 4 Smut 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Kato Pale</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts">smaragdbird</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stentor took off his sandals last, noticing as he sat down to do so how the round edges of his <i>pteruges</i> pressed into the bare flesh of his backside. The red skirt and underclothes he usually wore were already on a heap on the floor with the rest of his armour, where his shoes joined them now. He found himself moving more timidly than usually towards the doorway, as every step threatened to expose some intimate part of him while the soft leather strips shifted against his skin.</p><p>With a frown, Stentor pushed through the curtain and deliberately sped up as he walked down the stairs. He was going to be bred in front of the thirty-six members of his <i>syssition</i> and various guests, there was no point in being coy now.</p><p>There were not many men who could carry children, though once the gift was in a bloodline, it was usually passed on. As Stentor had been born a helot to a mother and a father who had never thought to track their ancestors and had both died when he was still little more than a babe, there had been no way for him to know if he was one of the lucky ones. To that end, Nikolaos had brought him to the temple of Demeter when he’d turned fourteen, where the Spartans kept an ancient artefact said to have been passed down by the gods themselves which could read a man’s blood. Stentor still remembered the cool weight of it in his hand, pressing painfully against the narrow gash the priestress had cut into his palm. The artefact was a golden cube with perfectly straight edges, decorated in spirals drawn with extraordinary precision. Those thin, round lines had begun to glow when Stentor had gripped the cube tightly and relief had washed through him. The children born of the union of two Spartan warriors were prized as gods-given by Ares and Artemis and expected to grow up especially strong. Back then, it had been an argument in favour of Nikolaos finalising the adoption and a promise that Stentor could contribute to the Spartan state. Besides, he had already started to suspect that his interest was in men and being able to bear children would get him out of the responsibility to marry.</p><p>Being just a boy then, though, he hadn’t known about the traditions that came as baggage. Since a man being able to bear children was so rare, the first impregnation was made into a ritual – and like many rituals, it was public, an event for the members of the man’s <i>syssitios</i> and their esteemed friends to behold. He could have done the ritual at any time, but he had been too busy on the battlefield to think much about planning a family and suddenly he’d realised he was about to turn thirty, the age at which the state made participation in the ritual mandatory unless Stentor wanted to marry a woman instead.</p><p>He’d opted to take his chances with the ritual, though he was nervous about the onlookers. Stentor had received a man a few times, when he’d been eighteen, twenty, and a little younger-looking than that, which had allowed him to get away with it without too much scrutiny. Afterwards, he had feared that discovery of his secret enjoyment would eventually come back as gossip to cause his father shame and he had stopped giving himself to  men this way. Able to bear children or not, a true Spartan man did not like submission. It was not the act itself he feared, then, but that he would not sufficiently suffer and fail to make people believe he was here just for the good of Sparta.</p><p>Perhaps he had grown less fond of it over the last decade, Stentor told himself, or perhaps his partner would be clumsy and stiff so that there was no fear of anyone laying under him ever enjoying themselves. He couldn’t guess, since he didn’t know who it would be yet. Had he had an <i>erastes</i>, the man would have been first in line for the ritual, but Nikolaos had wanted Stentor’s education to be wholly shaped by him, so that was not an option. He could have chosen, but he’d no candidate in mind, and had finally decided to put the decision in the hands of Tyche. As having gods-given children was prestigious and Stentor was the only surviving heir to the great Nikolaos and stood to gain the role of polemarch in his thirtieth year, he could guess without arrogance that several good men would be vying for the spot.</p><p>The winner was decided by ritual combat. From Stentor’s own <i>syssitios</i>, Zenon and Timaios had announced their intentions, but only the latter had a chance. Athanasios, a polemarch about Nikolaos’ age, would likely try out, too, which was an odd thing to contemplate. As a young soldier, Stentor had secretly feared the quiet man who killed without blinking and spoke so little you’d think it hurt him, reminding Stentor of some sort of war-like automaton. However, Athanasios had never broken the laws of Sparta and the many corpses in his wake should be seen as testament to his strength, or so Stentor told himself to chase off the ill feeling in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t have to be him, he reminded himself. There would likely be a handful of younger, lesser known hopefuls trying out, too, men who didn’t know Stentor but wanted connections and glory, which Stentor was fine with if they had the battle prowess to back it up; he liked ambition and after all, he needed only a child from them and didn’t have to pay attention to them afterwards if they turned out to be disagreeable. </p><p>“Stentor!” Kallikrates, a robust old bear of a warrior who was the unelected leader of Stentor’s <i>syssitios</i>, grabbed him by the shoulder as Stentor reached the foot of the stairs. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed him standing there. “Are you ready? They are waiting for you in the mess hall.”</p><p>“As ready as I will ever be,” Stentor answered, attempting to project something like dignity in his sparse traditional covering. “Who is the man?”</p><p>“That’s a surprise!” Kallikrates said and gave a huge grin which showed the broken gaps in his teeth that many glorious battles had left him with over the years.</p><p>Stentor rolled his eyes at him, but did not push. They were approaching the doorway into the mess hall, which laid in the dim light of torches, and he would know in a moment, anyway.</p><p>They entered and Stentor stared at the man standing by the bedstead that had been propped up in the middle of the room.</p><p>“Lysander?!” he burst out.</p><p>There were a few knowing grins and snickers from the crowd. Though Lysander was not part of this <i>syssitios</i>, several men here had grown up in the <i>agoge</i> at the same time as the two of them and knew full well what they thought and, often enough, openly said about each other.</p><p>Lysander, who stood in full armour as tradition demanded, simply gave a scowl in response.</p><p>“I beat the rest,” he said defiantly.</p><p>Stentor quickly composed himself. He would not have this sacred meeting dissolve into chatter and bickering from the very start. Stepping through the crowd, he kept a wary eye on him. Lysander was a bastard born to a Spartan father and helot mother. His noble father had not paid him much attention, which Stentor figured went some ways in explaining his perpetual and exasperating grudge against Spartan nobility and their supposedly haughty ways. Still, the connection had allowed him entry into the <i>agoge</i>. Being the only boys of helot descent in their crop, they had naturally been pitted against each other both by their instructors and their own sense of pride. It hadn’t fostered friendship and the taunts and blows they exchanged had only grown sharper as Stentor climbed into the upper echelons of Spartan society with Nikolaos’ help. Lysander called him a spoiled brat in front of the whole citizen assembly, Stentor shot back that he was a querulous malcontent. They still clashed on the training grounds half a dozen times a year. It had been this way since they were men grown and was almost comfortable in its consistency, but this hardly fit their usual dance.</p><p>“What is it?” Lysander hissed, as Stentor was close enough that the murmurs around the room masked his quiet voice. “Didn’t you think I could do it?”</p><p>“You wouldn’t have been my first guess,” Stentor whispered dryly, though in truth it didn’t surprise him. Lysander was a capable combatant. Stentor himself had lost against him as often as he had won. “But that aside, I have no idea <i>why</i> you’re here.”</p><p>“There are not many men who can bear the gifts of the gods. I want them,” Lysander said forcefully. “And you – I think you would honour the results of ritual combat.”</p><p>It was true that Stentor could still simply walk away from this. Sure, there would be gossip and derision, but if he turned around and picked someone like Athanasios, whose strength and skill had never been in question, the grumbling would stop eventually. Lysander was also right that another in Stentor’s place might not have considered Lysander for this honour – both because of actual reservations about his helot heritage, and because Lysander had made enough enemies with his loud derision of the Spartan ruling class.</p><p>For a moment, Stentor remained quiet. Lysander was frequently infuriating, but he was honest to the point where you’d often wish he’d simply shut his mouth already. Still, Stentor could respect how upfront he was, if nothing else, and there were many people who would have given him honeyed words and false compliments instead of simply saying the truth of why they had come, which would always have been first and foremost to secure the gods-gifted children. It seemed too weak of a reason to be the whole truth, of course, but enough to go on for now.</p><p>“I will,” he said curtly.</p><p>Lysander pulled off his helmet. He had a head full of wild, dark curls, dishevelled and damp with sweat from standing in armour in the evening heat. Before Stentor had a chance to react, Lysander grabbed his face with both hands and pressed a bruising kiss to his lips.</p><p>Stentor wasted no moment with hesitation, he had fought Lysander too often for that. Pushing back, he hooked his leg around Lysander’s and kicked out his support from under him. They went down on the bedstead together, pillows and blankets cushioning their fall. Stentor landed on top and though he was in a state of undress and Lysander geared for war, this felt like wrestling in the dust of the training grounds, the same tight push of bodies, the same mingling of heated breath, suddenly underlined with more than a vague, half-allowed notion that their bristling passion might have turned another way than violence if they weren’t both so stubborn. The quiet voices of their onlookers didn’t seem out of place. They always drew a crowd when they fought.</p><p>Lysander wrapped his arms under his shoulders and flipped Stentor in a show of raw strength, pinning him to the ground.</p><p>“I don’t know how you think this will work, but you will have to spread your legs for this,” he said with a wide grin on his face, loud enough for the other men in the room to hear. It earned him bawdy laughter.</p><p>Stentor showed his teeth in a snarl. This was a sore spot, of course: giving up to Lysander, of all people. Having physically felt his strength and drive before, perhaps he had imagined it and squashed the thought just as quickly once or twice. It only made the reality more embarrassing.</p><p>“Show me, then,” he gave back imperiously, raising his voice as well. “Artemis won’t grant us her huntresses nor Ares his soldiers if all you can muster is a couple minutes before you go limp.”</p><p>It had always been too easy to rile up Lysander, especially now that Stentor had an audience who was excited and happy to laugh at Stentor’s taunts, too. Lysander growled as his hands tightened around Stentor’s shoulders and he pushed his way roughly between his thighs. His hands were hot as they grabbed at his naked body, his mouth sucking at his neck with an open greed that surprised Stentor. Not many would have shown themselves so eager to paw another full-grown man under the eyes of others. He had been to a couple of these rituals as a guest to other <i>syssitia</i> and the men performing there had acted stern and detached.</p><p>Then again, it was of course known that some men preferred men even if they were not much younger, but most would not have admitted to it, nor made a show out of it in public. But when had Lysander ever lied to make himself seem more agreeable? <i>You wilful, foolish man</i>, Stentor thought, and tried to ignore that the lust blazing against him touched him like a wildfire did dry wood, especially after he had fumbled through so many lukewarm encounters with men who let shame make them cower. His hips shifted before he noticed, his half-hard cock rubbing against the inside of Lysander’s thigh, and when he grasped Lysander in some effort to control him like he would if they were wrestling, it felt more like an embrace, a chance to feel the strong muscle moving all over his broad back, drag his fingers through the thick curls of hair at the base of Lysander’s neck. He shouldn’t have done this, but the temptation was too great.</p><p>As Stentor cast his gaze about, however, the fear for his, or more importantly his father’s reputation abated a little. Eyes were glued to them and more than one man had taken a seat, possibly to hide what the loose chitons they wore could not. If they showed a little too much passion tonight, Stentor realised they would share this secret with many others. Emboldened by the thought, he pushed the heel of his palm against Lysander’s jaw and drew him into another kiss as he tugged him closer, feeling the metal of Lysander’s armour dig cool and hard into his bare skin, the bulge in Lysander’s underclothes pressing into his stomach just as insistently.</p><p>When Lysander pulled back, he looked surprised, but did not allow Stentor to savour that he had caught him off-guard. Instead, he sat back and turned Stentor around. Reflexively, Stentor tried to resist, but remembered that he had already forfeited with the ritual and instead scowled into a pillow as he listened to Lysander shifting and the appreciative murmurs around the room.</p><p>The leather strips of his skirt were thrown back and slick fingers pushed against his hole. Stentor frowned over his shoulder.</p><p>“I don’t need that. Just use your cock,” he muttered.</p><p>“I plan to get you pregnant tonight, so I will need to fit all the way to get my seed in you,” Lysander answered quietly as he shoved one finger inside of Stentor, an ache that was sudden but only irritating and which diffused as Lysander moved his finger almost gently.</p><p>“Are you that big? I suppose it fits a temperament like yours,” Stentor murmured, voice dripping with venom to hide his excitement. The ideal for a man was a smaller size, of course, not to be hung like a satyr who had no reason or temperance. It was always hard to remember for Stentor what his manners told him he should prefer, though, when he had a large cock thrusting between his legs.</p><p>“You will feel soon enough,” Lysander gave back, twisting his finger. His voice was filled with the amused self-confidence of one who knew he was not lying.</p><p>Stentor groaned into the pillow as Lysander found the spot inside him that had his knees shaking. He’d gone for it without hesitation and pressed with just enough force that it was maddening without hurting. It would surprise him if Lysander did not do this regularly.</p><p>Judging by the rough chuckle behind him, it seemed to please Lysander that he had Stentor enjoying himself, and Stentor clamped his mouth shut in a bout of petulance. Though he managed to suppress the noises, Lysander worked him open expertly after all these years that Stentor had denied himself this pleasure, and by the time he was idly stroking his insides with two fingers, Stentor was restlessly pushing into his palm.</p><p>“I’m not going to get pregnant by your hand,” he snapped, finally.</p><p>“Are you that eager for my cock? You should have said so, perhaps we needn’t have fought so much,” Lysander drawled.</p><p>Stentor tried to kick him, but he could not see behind and Lysander grabbed him by the ankle, laughing. He did finally move closer, though, and took him by the hips. Conversation around them died down suddenly as if the men watching were holding their breath alongside Stentor.</p><p>Though he had not seen him naked since they had both been youths competing in the <i>gymnopaedia</i>, Stentor could tell Lysander was big enough to justify his drawn-out preparations. Even slick with the oil that had stood prepared and with Stentor being more willing than he would ever admit to, Lysander needed a few hard thrusts to seat himself fully. Stentor dugs his fingers into the pillows and stifled the next groan that wanted to escape.</p><p>So far Lysander had been careful, but he let the reins slip now. He yanked Stentor into position so he could slam into him. All the force of their fights returned and Stentor refused to concede more ground than he had to, just as he always did. Spreading his knees, he regained a little purchase and then moved with Lysander, against him, challenging him to speed up his rhythm, driving him relentlessly.</p><p>Lysander growled, rising to the bait. He had the upper hand, naturally, but Stentor could not begrudge him this anymore. The strength of him was intoxicating and Lysander was entirely without shame, leaning close over his back to feel Stentor skin to skin, twisting his nipples, raking his fingers over his chest, roughly dragging his hand over Stentor’s cock. It was all Stentor could do to bite his knuckles bloody to not moan out loud. He came into Lysander’s fist, harder than he had in years. He noticed Lysander was not far behind him when he grabbed him by the sides again, his fingers digging into his flesh with bruising power until he had spent himself deep inside him.</p><p>Stentor turned his head to breathe into the bunched-up blankets, head spinning. Lysander remained in him for a long moment and Stentor wished it had been longer yet when he pulled out.</p><p>Brushing down the leather strips of his battle skirt, Stentor sat up, steeling himself before he looked around, chin raised, daring their audience to comment. No one did, but there was more than one man who stared him with fascination, or need. As his heartbeat slowed, Stentor was happy that Lysander had given him such a fight. It would have been more difficult for him to meekly submit to a quieter, gentler man.</p><p>He straightened his back and watched Lysander pull on his underclothes and pick up his helmet, clamping it under his arm.</p><p>“I will see our guest to the door,” he said to the men of his <i>syssitios</i> as if Lysander had been here to drink on a victory with them.</p><p>They walked in silence out of the room. Stentor still felt the ache inside him as well as the damp feeling of Lysander’s seed running between his thighs, but refused to give Lysander the satisfaction of watching him limp.</p><p>They stepped out into the sweltering summer night. The moon shone so bright in the star-studded sky that Stentor could look around in its soft light and make sure they were alone.</p><p>“So what was the point of that?” he asked.</p><p>“You looked like you enjoyed yourself,” Lysander said gruffly. “What’s the matter? I told you, I just want the children.”</p><p>“You claim to be of Heracles’ blood. If that’s true, you’d have strong children with a touch of the gods regardless of your partner,” Stentor said matter-of-factly. “That can’t be all. So what is it? Does the proud Lysander want the prestige of Nikolaos’ family, after all?”</p><p>Lysander looked genuinely insulted by the suggestion and Stentor actually believed that he did not value it, had said it only to draw him out. While he had always bristled at the disrespect Lysander showed his father, there was a strange sort of distinction in knowing that whatever Lysander hated and tolerated about Stentor where all just Stentor’s qualities. To Lysander, he was only Nikolaos’ boy when he wanted to mock him, whereas to the rest of Sparta, Stentor included, being Nikolaos’ son was Stentor’s whole identity.</p><p>“I don’t care about you damned father! I was here for you!” Lysander stopped, started again. “You were… you – will bear strong children, I’m sure.”</p><p>The sullen stutter sounded suspiciously like embarrassment. Stentor didn’t think he’d ever heard it before without putting Lysander face-down in the sand first. </p><p>“I have to go now,” Lysander added abruptly. “I am sailing a scouting vessel to Seriphos come tomorrow. I should get some sleep.”</p><p>With those words, he stormed off into the pale night.</p><p>-</p><p>Lysander had left Stentor with too many thoughts and the fruit of their exertions that night. When he returned to Sparta three months later, he came to visit Stentor at his house only an hour after Stentor first heard someone speak of his arrival. Sliding off the back of a tired horse in the midst of a warm autumn rain, Lysander dropped his gaze to look almost with wonder at Stentor’s belly, which had already swelled to a subtle curve.</p><p>“You were good for something that night,” Stentor told him after allowing him to enter.</p><p>“Of course I was,” Lysander growled. “Was there any doubt?”</p><p>“The gods are to thank,” Stentor tempered him as he sat down at the table. “I’m sure it will be a girl. The bright moon kept me awake all night after the ritual. Artemis was watching.”</p><p>Perhaps it had been Lysander’s words before his departure which had helped to steal his chance at sleep, too, but Stentor would not admit to that.</p><p>Lysander crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t wear armour now, just a simple white chiton plastered to his muscular body by the rain, and looked handsome and more youthful for it.</p><p>“If you are right, we have to try again. Spartan men need sons for the army.”</p><p>“If you want sons, why don’t you get married?” Stentor asked innocently. “A Spartan wife would surely be happy to give you as many as you desire.”                                                                                                   </p><p>“I seem to be able to get children on you just fine. It took us one try. Why not make use of it? You will want sons, too,” Lysander said obstinately.</p><p>It was as much admission as he would get out of Lysander, Stentor figured, confirmation of the suspicion he had had: Lysander wanted nobody else. Stentor had turned this prospect in his head for a while now and judged it to be intriguing. They had never quite been able to let go off each other, after all. Perhaps there was another way for them to deal with it than with their fists.</p><p>“I suppose I always wanted more than one child and you’ve done your part so far. I might think about it.” Stentor cocked his head. “What were you doing in Seriphos, though? You never said.”</p><p>“It’s too long a tale for a few words,” Lysander answered, shrugging his shoulders. “A series of missions that will hopefully find us on equal footing with Athens at sea, if not able to beat them.”</p><p>“There are bread and olives in the kitchen. Let’s talk.”</p><p>Stentor got up and Lysander hesitated, shy for a split second, before he quickly stomped after him with his customary scowl. When his hand brushed along the small of Stentor’s back and up to settle carefully between his shoulder blades as they walked, Stentor allowed it and gave him a hint of a smile as an answer.</p>
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